3. Philomena Sureshot

Philomena Sureshot


  • (Thought i might dig this background out of Tales. I know i won't get xp!)

    Sitting cross-legged at Arrowroot's side, the young Philomena listened to the wise old halfling teach her the healing properties of root and leaf. The old fellow sat there, legs crossed and supple as a young sapling, as his bald pate shone in the afternoon sun, and his gentle words of lore taught Philomena of wood and wilds. Around them the dragonflies buzzed in the warm afternoon, and the murmuring brook whispered in their ears.

    The first sign that something was amiss was the arrival of Rufus, her brother. He was training to be one of the "Bounders," the local halfling miltia, and had been patrolling the edges of the halfling lands known as the Seven Shires. Indeed, it was Jude her father who had founded the Bounders, upon his return from his travels as scout to an elven War Band. From his military service, he brought back wealth, the finest bow arm in the Seven Shires, and the worship of Corellon Larethian, the Elven Protector. And now Rufus called upon his name, "May Corellon protect us!" he gasped. "Philomena, Arrowroot!", he panted, pointing eastwards. "A goblin raiding party is on the way!"

    With a speed and grace belying his age, Arrowroot rose and faced the two youngsters. In a commanding voice, strong and sure, without a trace of fear, he spoke; "You two must return to the village, seek your father and help him in raising all able-bodied hands to the defense of Underbucket. I will stay and harry the goblins, seeking to buy enough time for your father to prepare the village's defenses." With a swift gesture of his arm, the old ranger silenced the objections of the younger halflings. "Go now, to Underbucket, with all speed. Go!" Philomena and Rufus looked on Arrowroot for the last time, and turned and ran for home.

    As she ran, the tears began to stream down Philomena's cheeks. She was sure she would not see Arrowroot again.

    Breathless, the two burst in on their father, secure in his study, poring over some old papers written in the elven tongue. Speaking quickly but with clarity, Philomena advised her father of the goblin raiding party, even now on its way to Underbucket. Looking earnestly into her beloved father's eyes, she was surprised to see a look of fear, panic almost, momentarily flit across his face. Taking a moment to compose himself, old Jude looked at his two children, waiting breathless and expectant for their father's commands. "The cellar," he said, "you two, get down there and retrieve the store of arrows. We will need them. Quickly!" he barked. Without stopping to think Philomena and Rufus raced down the cellar steps. As they made their way downwards, they were surprised to hear a sudden sound. The cellar trapdoor being slammed shut and bolted above their heads! With but the dim light illuminating their shocked faces, Philomena stared at Rufus as a slow but awful realisation began to dawn. "Father!" She cried, "let us out!"

    From beyond the trapdoor, came a quiet voice choking with grief. "I am sorry my children. Stay safe and hidden there, I will return when I can. For now I must raise the Bounders." "Father, father! No!" The screams and cries of the two young halflings went ignored, as above their heads they heard their father calling for all able-bodied halflings to rally to the defense of Underbucket.

    Trapped and helpless, brother and sister clung to each other for safety, fearing the worst. But why?! Why had their father locked them below ground? Philomena was the best shot in the village, and Rufus was a lively lad with a stalwart sword arm! Both had been trained in the martial traditions, Philomena as a ranger, and Rufus as a warrior sworn to join the Bounders upon reaching his age of majority. Ironically Rufus was only a few months away from his birthday, and his induction as a full member of the Underbucket militia. Incensed, he banged away with his bare fists on the trapdoor until they bled, screamed until his voice was hoarse. Sitting a on the bottom stair, Philomena stared at the ground, her head in her hands. "Sit down Rufus," she murmured in a voice heavy with the despair of defeat. "The village is preparing its defense, no-one can hear us now."

    The sounds that they heard that night, ears held to the trapdoor, would haunt their sleep, echo through their dreams for the rest of their lives. The screams, the sound of wickedly barbed goblin blades cutting through halfling flesh, the weeping and wailing. Until eventually, silence. Huddled in the corner of the cellar, in a state of bemused trauma, the two youngsters spent three days and three nights in the musty underground.

    On the fourth day, fearing they would surely pass away down there, they were startled to hear a gentle rapping coming from the trapdoor above.

    "Is anyone there?" came a soft voice. Looking up, not daring to believe that help had come, they watched as the trapdoor slowly lifted, the soft lantern light streaming down onto their upturned faces. An old halfling figure crouched above, his bushy sideburns white with age, his lined face a picture of concern. "Palto!" The two halflings shouted as one. It was their dear uncle, Jude's brother-in-law, the scholar and philosopher Palto Gassbag. Scrambling up to meet him, the three hugged as their sobs and cries filled the air, a mix of despair and joy. Slowly, the three limped out of the Sureshot's home, into the harsh and unforgiving light of day.

    The village of Underbucket was unrecognisable. The tiny hamlet was so-called because once, when a travelling human merchant had seen it, he had jested, "Call that a village! The whole thing would fit under a bucket!" And so it became Underbucket, home of the Sureshots for generations. But that was then. All that remained were smouldering ruins, here the bakery of Bill Bagshot, the timbers a blackened mass, there the smithy of old Lowie Hornblower, razed to the ground, the anvil silenced forever.

    In a daze the three halflings wandered the ruins, their silence a memorial to the dead.

    After burying what remains the three could find of their dead kinsman, they drew up a plan. Palto's books and letters indicated that the goblin raiding party must have come from the Rawlinswood, to the North, from where word had come that evil humanoids were massing. "I will clean up my home here as best I can, and remain. I have but few years left, I shall tend to the graves of our brethren, and study my books. But for you two youngsters, there is nothing left for you here." The old halfling's voice was thick with sorrow.

    It was then that Philomena and Rufus had vowed revenge, although Palto disapproved. They quickly decided to travel North, to seek the goblins of the Rawlinswood. That day they both made a promise to Corellon Larethian, the Protector, that they would only cease their hunt when all evil humanoids had been erased from the face of Faerun, or when their own blood stained the lands, and death stayed their hands. And so both had come to Norwick. In another bitter blow, tragedy upon tragedy, Rufus had fallen soon after arriving. Always the firebrand, he had raced into the woods unprepared, unheeding of his sister's advice. Days later, Philomena had recovered his body. She was not surprised he had fallen. Her family was cursed, it would seem, each one would fall to goblins.

    But here in Narfell, perhaps there would be a new beginning. Her inability to help defend her home is the bitterest of memories to her, but perhaps here at last could be found redemption.

    And so she, the last of the Sureshots, would remain. Her resolve steadfast, she prayed to Corellon Larethian to keep her alive, until the woods ran crimson with the blood of goblins. With no kin left, she prepares her bow for battle, her face unmoved as the inscrutable moon.


  • Reviewed - No XP Pending.

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